Verses 

Grave and 
Gay 



A Verse for Everyone 



Selected and Arranged by 
GUY CHOATE 

Los Angeles 



1917 



Copyright, June, 1917 
By Guy Choate 



/ 



M 27 1917 



Citizen Print Shop 
Los Angeles 



TO THE READERS OF MY 
LITTLE BOOK 

which consists of a miscellaneous col- 
lection of old and a few new Poems 
gathered here and there from time to 
time as they appealed to me, you will 
find, I'm sure, sentiment enough in 
one or more of them to make this 
little book a token to each and every 
one of you. 

Acknowledgement has been given 
all known Authors, and apologies 
offered to those unknown. 

—GUY CHOATE. 



My Wish 



If I were permitted to wish today, 
And to have that wish come true, I'd say 
"Deck me in trousers and give me a grip. 
And the sweets of the land I'll surely sip; 
Give me a long mileage ticket, and see 
What a wonderful traveling man I'll be. 

"Give me a smile like a 'drummer's' smile, 
That is always bright and free from guile; 
Give me his laugh, with its music grand 
That would silence with envy an angel band; 
Clothe me in innocence, simple and pure — 
Just like a 'drummer's!' And, oh, be sure 
That you don't forget to kindly see 
That I'm decked with a badge of the U. C. T. 

"Give me a head with a god-like poise, 
Just like all the noble boys, 
And orbs as keen as the eagle's eye. 
To see every pretty girl passing by, 
And the gift of gab in a perfect stream. 
And a heart as big as the boundless sea — 
The regular heart of a U. C. T. 

"Give me the patience to be resigned 
To the 'swell hotels' they so often find, 
Where corncobs are stuffed in the pillow slips 
And the festive bug of his rich blood sips; 
Where the meat is made from leather soles. 
And the nightmare kicks through his night's repose; 
Where he pays for 'extras' of high degree 
That are tacked to the bill of each U. C. T. 

"Give me the polish and courtly mein 
Of the most gallant Knight that e'er was seen. 
And the courage superb and bearing fine 
Of the 'Coeur de Lion' of olden time. 
Give me a mind of the gentlest mould. 
And a heart as pure as the purest gold — 
For these are the points, 'twixt you and me. 
That ennobles the boys of the U. C. T." 

— L. Nnez Eden. 

Page Seven 



Do Salesmen Go to Heaven? 

The devil came up to the earth one day 

And into a buyer's room took his way, 

Just as two salesmen (whose talks never fail) 

Were proceeding to argue their points for a sale. 

Now a salesman his majesty never had seen (?) 

For to his domain none ever had been; 

" 'Tis the fault of my agents," his majesty thought, 

"That none of these C. T.'s have ever been caught." 

And for his own pleasure he felt a desire 

To come up on earth and the reason inquire. 

Now when the first salesman had come to a close, 

The second opposing him fearlessly rose 

And heaped such abuse on the head of the first, 

That he made him a villain; of all men, the worst. 

Each claimed he was right, and the other was wrong; 

They sparred and contended and argued so long, 

That concluding he'd heard enough of the fuss 

Old Nick turned away, and soliloquized thus: 

"They've puzzled the buyer with their villianous cavil, 

And I'm free to confess, they have puzzled the devil. 

My agents were right; let the salesmen alone — 

If I had THEM in Hades, I'd sure lose my throne." 



Anna from Texarkana 

Far off in Arkansas, 
Where the alfalfa grows, 

I've been looking for my honey. 
Goodness knows! 

And I'm going to wave a banner 
When I find my little Anna — 

Anna from Texarkana; 
She is my Texas rose. 



Page Eight 



Tell Me a Country Story 

Tell me a country story, 

If you would give to me 
Sincere and untold pleasure, 

Of kindest sympathy; 
One filled with old-time figures 

Proclaiming childhood days, 
With country birds and music, 

Wtih country elves and fays. 

Tell me of lakes and mountains, 

Of streamlets and of hills. 
Of winding lanes and pathways. 

Of sparkling moonlit rills; 
I'm hungry for the country 

And for its scenes I long. 
So tell me a country story. 

Oh, sing me a country song. 

Please picture in your story 

A scene of winter time, 
Where frosty ice and snowflake 

Make crisp the church bell's chime; 
The snowclad hills and trees at night, 

All glistening 'neath the glow 
Of moon and stars, make glad the heart 

Of him who loves the snow. 

The little farmhouse on the hills. 

The well not far away. 
Have never left my memory, 

I bid them always stay; 
The old folks still abide there 

Though far away I roam, 
So tell me a country story, 

A tale of Home, Sweet Home. 

— Converse E. Nickerson. 

Page Nine 



John Rankin's Sermon 



The minister said last night, says he, 

"Don't be afraid of givin'; 
If your life ain't nothin' to other folks, 

Why what's the use of livin'?" 
And that's what I say to my wife, says I, 

"There's Brown, that miserable sinner, 
He'd sooner a beggar would starve, than give 

A cent toward buyin' a dinner." 



I tell you our minister's prime, he is. 

But 1 couldn't quite determine, 
When I heard him givin' it right and left. 

Just who was hit by the sermon. 
Of course there couldn't be no mistake, 

When he talked of long-winded prayin'. 
For Peters and Johnson ttoey sot and scowled 

At every word he was eayin'. 



And the minister he went on to say, 

"There's various kinds of cheatin'. 
And religion's as good for every day 

As it is to bring to meetin'. 
1 don't think much of a man that gives 

The loud amens at my preachin'. 
And spends his time the foUowin' week 

In cheatin' and over-reachin'." 



I guess that dose was bitter 

For a man like Jones to swallow; 
But I noticed he didn't open his mouth, 

Not once, after that, to holler. 
Hurrah, says I for the minister — 

Of course I said it quiet — 
Give us some more of this open talk; 

It's very refreshin' diet. 



Page Ten 



The minister hit 'em every time; 

And when he spoke of fashion, 
And a'riggin' out in bows and things, 

As woman's rulin' pashion, 
And a-comin' to church to see the styles, 

I couldn't help a-winkin' 
And a-nudgin' my wife, and says I, "That's you, 

And I guess it sot her thinkin'. 

Says I to myself, that sermon's pat; 

But man is a queer creation; 
And I'm much afraid that most o' the folks 

Wouldn't take the application. 
Now if he had said a word about 

My personal mode of sinnin', 
I'd have gone to work t oright myself. 

And not set there a-grinnin'. 

Just then the minister say's, says he, 

"And now I have come to the fellers 
Who've lost this shower by usin' their friends 

As sort of moral umbrellers. 
Go home," says he, "and find your faults , 

Instead of huntin' your brother's; 
Go home," saiys he, "and wear the coats 

You've tried to fit the others." 



My wife she nudged, and Brown he winked. 

And there was lots of smilin', 
And lots of lookin' at our p«w; 

It sot my blood a-bilin'. 
Says I to myself, our minister 

Is gettin' a little bitter; 
I'll tell him when meetin's out, that I 

Aint at all that kind of a critter. 

— Author Unknown. 



Page Eleven 



Der Drummer 



Who puts up at der pest hotel 
Und dakes his oysters on der schell, 
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell? 
Der drummer. 



Who vas it gomes into mine schtore, 
Drows down his pundles on der vloor, 
Und never schtops to shut der door? 
Der drummer. 



Who takes me by der handt, und say, 
"Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas today?" 
Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay? 
Der drummer. 



Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, 
Und dells me, "Look und see how nice?' 
Und says I gets "der bottom price?" 
Der drummer. 



Who dell how cheap der goods vas bought, 
Mooch less as vot I gould imbort, 
But lets dem go as he vas "short"? 
Der drummer. 



Who says der tings vas eggstra vine — 
"Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine" — 
Und sheats me den dimes oudt of nine? 
Der drummer. 



Who varrants all der goots to suit 
Der gustomers ubon his route, 
Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot? 
Der drummer. 



Page Twelve 



Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, 
Drinks cup mine beer, und eats mine kraut, 
Und kisses Katrina in der mout'? 
Der drummer. 

Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, 

Vil hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, 

Und mit a plack eye goes avay? 

Der drummer. 

— Charles P. Adams. 



That Baby 



My mother thinks that baby's fine; 

She says she couldn't do without him; 
But I tell YOU if he was mine 

I wouldn't make no fuss about him. 
He isn't man enough to walk; 

She has to sit around and hold him; 
He slobbers when he tries to talk 

And she don't ever even scold him. 

I took him for a ride today 

An' by an accident I spilled him. 
It didn't hurt him none — but, say. 

He hollered so you'd think I'd killed him. 
That's him; he always acts like sin, 

He's just a reg'lar mollycoddle; 
I think we ought to trade him in 

An' get a 1917 model! 

— James J. Montague. 



Page Thirteen 



Somebody's Mother 

The woman was old, and ragged, and gray, 
And bent with the chill of the winter's day; 
The street was wet with a recent snow. 
And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 
She stood at the crossing and waited long 
Alone, uncared-for, amid the throng 
Of human beings who passed her by. 
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 

Down the street, with laughter and shout, 
Glad in the freedom of school let out, 
Came the boys, like a flock of sheep. 
Hailing the snow piled white and deep; 
Past the woman so old and gray, 
Hastened the children on their way. 
Nor offered a helping hand to her. 
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir 
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet 
Should crowd her down in the slippery street. 

At last one came of the merry troop. 
The gayest laddie of all the group; 
"I'll help you across, if you wish to go." 
Her aged hands on his strong young arm 
She placed, and so without hurt or harm 
He guided her trembling feet along. 
Proud that his own were firm and strong; 
Then back again to his friends he went, 
His young heart happy and well content. 

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know. 
For all she's old, and poor, and slow; 
And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
And help my mother, you understand. 
When her own dear boy is far away." 
And "somebody's Mother" bowed her head 
In her home that night, and the prayer she said 
Was: "God, be kind to the noble boy 
Who is somebody's son, and pride, and joy!" 



P^ge Fourteen 



Automobile Hymn 

My auto, 'tis of thee, short cut to poverty — 
of thee I chant. I blew a pile of dough on you 
two years ago, and now you quite refuse to 
go, or won't or can't. Through town and coun- 
tryside, you were my joy and pride — a happy 
day. I loved thy gaudy hue, thy nice white 
tires so new, but now you're down and out 
for true in every way. To thee, old rattlebox, 
came many bumps and knocks — for thee I 
grieve. Badly thy top is torn, frayed are thy 
seats and worn, the whooping cough affects 
thy horn, I do believe. Thy perfume swells 
the breeze while good folks choke and wheeze 
as we pass by. I payed for thee a price 
'twould buy a mansion twice, now everybody's 
.yelling "ice" — I wonder why? Thy motor has 
the pip and woe is thine. I, too, have suffered 
chills, ague and kindred ills, endeavoring to 
pay my bills since thou wert mine. Gone is 
my bank roll now, no more 'twould choke the 
cow, as once before. Yet, if I had the mon, 
so help me, John — amen — I'd buy myself a car 
again and speed some more. — Selected. 



Little Tilings 

Go, little crumb of comfort, 
I cast thee on the wave; 

Perhaps within its waters. 
You'll find a friendly grave. 

A soft word gently spoken, 
May soothe a restless soul, 

So speed upon your mission. 
Nor worry of the goal. 



Page Fifteen 



"Time flies," they say, my dear, and I 

Am satisfied it's ti'ue; 
But, goodness me! What makes it fly 

So fast when I'm with you? 



A Woman Who Understands 

Somewhere she waits to make you win. 
Your soul in her firm, white hands — 

Somewliere the Gods have made for you 
The woman who understands 

As the tide went out she found him, 

Lashed to the spar of despair — 
The wreclt of his ship around him. 

The wreck of liis dreams in the air — 
Found him, and loved him, and gathered 

The soul of him to her heart; 
The soul that had sailed an unchanted sea — 

The soul that had sought to win and be free- 
The soul of whicli she was part; 

And there in the dark she cried to the man: 

"Win your battle — you can — you can!" 

Helping and loving and guiding. 

Urging when that was best; 
Holding her fears in hiding 

Deep in her quiet breast; 
This is the woman who kept him 

True to his standards lost — 
When tossed in the storm of stress and strife. 

He thought himself thru with the game of life 
And ready to pay the cost; 

Watching and guarding — whispering still, 
"Win — you can — and I know you will!" 



Page Sixteen 



This is the story of the ages; 

This is the woman's day; 
Wiser than scores of sages, 

Lifting us day by day; 
Facing all things with a courage 

Nothing can daunt or dim; 
Treading life's path wherever it leads, 

Lined with flowers or choked with weeds. 
But ever with him — with him; 

Guardian, comrade and golden spur. 
The men who win her are helped by her. 

Somewhere she waits, strong in belief. 

Your soul in her firm white hands; 
Thank well the Gods when she comes to you — 

The woman who nuderstands. 

— J. Appleton, in Progress. 



Superstition 

I made my resolutions 

On January first; 
I says, "Now, Mistah Satan, 

Go on and do your worst. 
I felt so proud an' happy 

'Bout wut I'd went an' did, 
My feet got kind o' keerless; 

I suddenly backslid. 

I's mighty disappointed; 

I sho'ly never saw 
Such no-count luck. Next winter 

I'll tote my rabbit paw. 
Jes' see dem resolutions 

All piled up in a wreck! 
When New Year comes on Friday — 

Well, what kin you expect? 

Page Seventeen 



The Traveling Man 



I remember the days when a barefooted boy, 

In the village which witnessed my birth, 
I was taught to believe that a travleing man 

Represented the scum of the earth. 

When ever a stranger appeared on the street, 

Arrayed in a checkerboard vest; 
With a coffin-nail stuck in the front of his face 

And a "sparkler" astride of his chest; 

With a razor-edged crease in the leg of his pants, 

And his shoes of a dazzling tan; 
And I'd say: "What on earth is the object I see?" 

They would say: "It's a traveling man." 

When a dutiful hubby came home just at dawn, 

And was asked to account to his spouse 
For the fact that his pins couldn't hold him erect 

In charge of his beautiful "souse"; 

He'd look humble and meek, like a dog that had been licked. 

And say: "Now, so help me Susanne, 
I started for home at ten minutes to ten, 

But — fell in with a traveling man." 

When the Ladies' Aid met, to darn socks for the poor, 

And peddle some scandle around. 
Some old lady would say in a horrified tone, 

"I've some new that will simply astound; 

"Old Deacon Jones' girl has gone clean to the bad 

(That hussy they call Mary Ann), 
She was seen on the street after dark Tuesday night. 

All alone, with a traveling man." 

But I find that the law still permits them to live; 

In fact they quite freely abound, 
And they don't even quarantine virtue at all 

When a traveling man happens around. 



Page Eighteen 



We have found that the species is liuman, in fact 

Whose presence enlivens and cheers; 
Who believes that a boost is vi^orth more than a knock; 

That a laugh has more value than tears. 

We find him a friend when a friend is in need, 

Who will never a kindness forget; 
Whose heart is developed far more than his "mit" — 

In short, a hail fellow well met. 

Then here's to his future, and may it e'er be 

As smooth as the unruffled brook; 
Our hats off to him, and oft may he coma 

With his grip and his mileage book. 

— Harry L. Wilson. 



Laundry Marks 



The laundry that they got from me 
Was Marked quite plainly 

C. R. B. 
They sent it back; I wore that day 
A collar owned by 

R. A. J. 
It went again; I had to try 
To wear the shirts of 

M. S. I. 
Once more they took it off and so 
I wear the things of 

B. M. O. 
Again, I wear now, I confess, 
Pajamas meant for 

S. G. S. 
The last just broke this heart of mine; 
I can't wear things marked Angeline. 

— Chas. R. Barnes. 

Page Nineteen 



The Female of the Species Is the Uplift of 
the Male 

Ever since the time of Adam, 

"When evil first began, 
God's noblest masterpiece was called 

The tempter of the man. 

But man, the willing victim, 

Ever ready for her call. 
Would turn his back to virtue 

And down to hell would fall. 

And then returning from the pit, 

He leaves the woman there. 
For the female of the species 

Is the only one to care. 

Who bears her cross of sorrow, 

The burden of his shame. 
Whose pallid cheeks and timid lips 

Are last to cast the blame? 

When all the world turn from him. 

Who is the last to dam? 
'Tis the female of the species, 

The uplift of the man. 

Her council has been ever sought 

By peasant, Prince and King, 
And in the future as the past 

Her praise will ever ring. 

She points the way to manhood, 

She leads in all that's right; 
And in the future years to come 

The world will know her might. 

Page Twenty 



So build your marble monument 

To honor, love and fame; 
And on its scroll in purest gold 

You'll carve the woman's name. 

Deprive the man of woman, 

He's a ship without a sail; 
For the "female of the species" 

Is essential to the male. 

Search through histor's pages 

In the long-forgotten past, 
And you'll find the name of woman 

Where'er man's lot is cast. 

You will find her as a helpmate, 

And a willing worker, too. 
You will find she bears the burden 

Of the sins that man should rue. 

Though man has been the tempter. 
And oft proved himself a beast, 

Yet upon her breast, in patient rest. 
His sorrows find surcease. 

The architect of manhood. 

The builder with her plan. 
"The female of the species" 

Is the maker of the man. 

All honor give to Kipling, 

To Hall Caine and the rest, 
But when a man seeks comfort 

Then woman is his quest. 

— Harry L. Richardson. 



Page Twenty-one 



The Cigar Girl 



She stands behind the counter with a condescending air, 
A bouquet on her shoulder and a rose pinned in her hair. 
Her voice is confidential, cajoling, low and sweet, 
And when it comes to jollying, this maiden can't be beat. 

She spies you ere the bellboy with firm and "grasping" hand 
Relieves you of the battered grip you carry thro the land, 
And in that first glad moment (if you haven't met before) 
Her dear eyes tell you mutely she's a creature to adore. 

You write your name in eager haste upon the register, 
And eagerly you make your way to the cigar case — and her. 
She gives you just a careless glance that seems to be a bar 
To further conversation as you buy your first cigar. 

But all the time she's watching you from a most bewitching eye 

To see if you are going to let a chance to fiirt go by. 

And you hand the fair one compliments in large and sugared 

chunks 
Before you've seen your customer or opened up your trunks! 

You spend an hour or so of time, likewise a lot of change. 
The sight of business for awhile has got beyond your range, 
Until you think you've captured what some other fellow's missed. 
And mentally you place her upon your captured list! 

Alas! Your dreams of conquest, as reluctantly you leave. 
Turn quickly into nightmares as you jealously perceive 
The maiden turn her soulful eyes and bestow her sweetest glance 
On a sixty-year Lothario who has waited for a chance! 

Oh, an actress isn't in it with the girl who sells cigars — 
Not barring the burlesquers or the prima donna stars — 
When it comes to winning favors from perennial traveling folk 
Who enjoy a mild flirtation with a strong or medium smoke! 

—J. S. Stunz. 
Page Twenty-two 



City Glamor 



Along the purpling city street, 

Where slowly tugging at the mist, 
The wet and gravid v/inds go by, 

There in the heavy amethyst. 
Caught in the blurry mush of fog, 

Entangled in the haze of snow, 
Like yellow, straining fireflies. 

The arclights glow ! 



Before a flaring theater. 
Splutters a flaunting orange light, 
That scatters spray of gold about — 

A rain of dreams upon the night! 
And deep into the misty gloom. 

And deep into the foggy air. 
This dripping light — this fairy gold — 

Is trickling everywhere! 



And through the whirls of magic mist, 

The clanging t>,«)lleys, lurching slow. 
Are draggiHg splashy, trailing pools 

Of molten gold across the snow. 
Then vaguely tlirough the purple haze, 

The wraith -like autos, flitting night. 
Shatter the mists with shafts of light 

And swift swish by! 



And oh, the swirling tides of faces, 

Foaming about the corners, surge 
And wildly seethe with swift desire. 

Wildly with swift, impetuous urge — 
Wildly they eddy in the mist. 

White, oh, as foam in foam-white haze — 
Tide upon spindrift tide of faces. 

Passionate through the maze! 

Louis Ginsberg, in The Forum. 

Page Twenty-three 



The Candidate 

He rambled into my camp one day and gave me a mean cigar; 
He was James B. Leed, and a candidate for Assessor of Jackass 

Bar; 
He talked and talked; and it\ seemed to me, from all that I 

heard him tell, 
If I didn't swarm over and vote for him the country would go 

to hell. 

He mentioned the Land of the Free a lot, and the Home of the 

Fair and Brave; 
He wore a collar as white as snow, and I never saw such a 

shave; 
He spoke of the Spirit of Seventy-Six till I swear I could hear 

the drum. 
His form vibratin' with patriotism and smellin' of pure bay rum. 

II 

I went across on election day, as proud as a man could be; 
And James B. Leed, all friendly smiles, he met and welcomed me. 
He shook my hand and shed some tears and gave me a mean 

cigar; 
Then he led me up to the happy crowd that stood at the Palace 

Bar. 

I sang the songs of my native land and hollered for James B. 

Leed; 
I made a speech in the afternoon, which nobody seemed to heed; 
And the last I knew, when the sun went down and two full 

moons arose, 
A half-breed gent from the Tomhead Gulch was drummin' upon 

my nose. 

Ill 

Election day had come and gone. All Nature seemed to hush 
And hold its breath Avhen I woke up, 'way out in the high buck 

brush; 
The world went round and round and round; and up in a scrub - 

oak tree 
A cussed jaybird sat and sang, My Country 'Tis of Thee. 

Page Twenty-four 



Then I went home. When I staggered in and looked at the dear 

old place, 
Each battered and rusty old tin can seemed just like a friendly 

face; 
My jackass sang a Welcome Home that shattered the startled 

skies; 
And I felt so glad when I heard him sing that the tears filled 

up my eyes. 

IV 

Now I've wrote this here: "Dear James B. Leed, Esquire, of 

Jackass Bar: 
I drank your Crow and I ate your grub and I rastled with your 

cigar ; 
I fought and bled and died for you, and hollered and wrecked 

my throat; 
But the day was short and I worked so hard that I didn't have 

time to vote. 

"I done the best that I could for you; but I wish that you'd 

stay away 
And leave me walkin' the paths of peace another election day; 
For I'm not so young as I used to be. I'm through; but I wish 

you well, 
And I hope you don't blame me too much if the country has 

gone to hell." 

— Lowell Otus Reese. 



Page Twenty-fiv« 



The Grateful Man 

He hit my camp on a rainy day, 

A-comin' from God knows wlaere, 
With a busted place in his overalls 

And burs in his tangled hair. 
He wasn't a fop and he wasn't a dude; 

But he surely was kind to me; 
For he said that my method of cooking 

Beans was the finest he ever see. 

(Now don't forget that the hills are high 

And the lone days wide between, 
Till a man forgets that he's got a tongue 

And his starvin' soul grows lean; 
For God he put in the first man's heart 

The longin' for human praise; 
And down thro' the millions of changing 

Years that haukerin' stays and stays.) 

I bedded him down the best I could and 

Showed him the whiskey jug; 
I didn't sleep good on the ground that night, 

But the stranger was warm and snug; 
I didn't sleep good, but I didn't mind. 

For I listened to what he said 
When he swore that my blankets reminded 

Him of his grandmother's feather bed. 

Oh, he was the gratefullest man, I think. 

That ever came up the Pass; 
He praised my claim and he praised my grub, 

And he bragged on my old jackass; 
He praised the coffee I brought to him 

Before he was out of bed. 
Till my worn-out hat got far too small 

For the size of my swelling head. 

He stayed and stayed till the spring sun came 
And the hill slopes all turned brown, 

And the drab flood riffled the old sluice box 
With the snow thaw comin' down; 



Page Twenty-six 



Then he went away. I was needin' help, 

For the bacon was low, you see, 
And the slucin' v/ater it don't last long; 

But he'd been so kind to me 

He'd been so kind that I couldn't bear 

To mention, you understand. 
That I needed help; so he shed some tears 

And gratefully shook my hand; 
Then he borr'^wed my shevel and fryin' pan, 

Tobacco and grub; and then 
Went singin' away up the Trinity Fork, 

And he never came back again. 

He never came back; but he struck a lead 

At the forks of the Little Bear— 
A six-fcot lead of the Peacock Blue, 

And now he's a millionaire. 
I met once, plumb face to face, 

On the Red Bluff road last fall; 
He looked my way as his car went by. 

But he never saw me at all! 

He never saw me; and my feelin's ached 

As I stood in the dusty trail. 
A cheery grin — it was all I asked — 

And maybe a friendly hail; 
For the hills are high and the days are long 

And the lone times wide between; 
I wanted a grin — and all I got 

Was the stink of his gasoline. 

Well, I suppose there's a lot of things, 

When a feller's a millionaire. 
That fill his mind till his poor old friends 

Are crowded clean out of there; 
Yet once he was terrible kind to me. 

He's rich, and I sure am glad — 
But I wish that he'd bring my old shovel back 

For I'm needin' it mighty bad. 

— By. Lowell Otus Reese. 

* Page Twenty -seven 



A Woman's Way 

CHAPTER I 

She flattered him, fed him, smiled at him and amused him. 

She accepted all his excuses, admired him, and even seemed 
to adore him. 

She advised him as he wished to be advised. 

She made allowances for him, ambled with him and ani- 
mated him. 

She made him lemonade. 

She wondered at his wit, she sang for him, danced for 
him and arranged the cushions for him so that he might be 
thoroughly comfortable. 

She made cake for him, too. 

She dressed for him, cheered him, waited for him, winked 
at him and welcomed him. 

She also made fudge for him, and when the weather was 
hot she made him pineapple ices. 

She looked up at him, cozened him and acquiesced also in 
the superiority of his intellect. 

She giggled for him, tittered for him, and often said that 
his jokes would be the death of her. 

She hurried for him, ran for liim, stopped for liim, and 
started again. 

Also she ogled him, sighed at him and looked at him ten- 
derly from the corners of her eyes. 

She made huckleberry pie for him as well. 

She filled his pipe. She lighted it. 

She also lighted his cigarettes and took dainty little puffs 
to get him started. 

She picked lint from his shoulder and put boutonnieres in 
his buttonhole. 

She read to him, and also she flattered his name. 

She looked at him, glanced at him, dropped her eyes, 
raised them, turned them, cast them up, rolled them, cast them 
down, opened them, closed them, twinkled them, flashed them 
and batted them soulfully — all for him. 

She made Welsh rarebits for him. She murmured to him, 
breathed to him, observed to him and likewise remarked. 

She agreed with him in everything — everything. 

CHAPTER II 

She married him. 

CHAPTER III 
And all the time she was laughing at him. 

Page Twenty-eight 



Down and Out 

Once he was free and merry, with friends and coin galore, 
For Fortune blessed him with her gifts, a dozen times or more. 
He put no stress on money — it went just as it came. 
He gave no thought to future, for in life he had no aim. 
He fought with old John Barleycorn, many a heavy bout. 
But John Barleycorn conquered — and now he's down and out. 

His friends were ever welcomed, with a kind and cheery word. 
He wined them and he dined them, like a Grand Duke or a Lord. 
And he was ever ready to help a friend in need. 
While his great heart beat with pity, when he did a kindly deed. 
And he fought with old John Barleycorn, many a heavy bout; 
But John Barleycorn conquered — and now he's down and out. 

He lingered 'round the gambling hells, the sin-foul haunts of 

shame. 
He lost all sense of honor, he cared not for his name. 
And down he went into the depths as far as man can go. 
And life to him was blank and drear, for he had made it so. 
He fought with old John Barleycorn, many a heavy bout; 
But John Barleycorn conquered — and now he's down and out. 

Now all his friends forsake him, they mix with him no more. 
The friends that ever sponged on him, when he had coin galore. 
They pass him by and never speak, while he does oft repent 
For all his weak and wayward ways, that swallowed every cent. 
He fought with old John Barleycorn, many a heavy bout; 
But John Barleycorn conquered — and now he's down and out. 

— M. C. Doran. 



Foxes can talk if you know how to listen, 

My paw said so. 
Owls have big eyes that sparkle an' glisten. 

My paw said so. 
Bears can turn flip-flaps an' climb eilum trees. 
An' steal all the honey away from the bees. 
An' they never mind winter becoz they don't freeze; 

My paw said so. 

— Edgar Guest. 

Page Twenty-nine 



Texas Ranger 

Come all you Texas Rangers, 

Where ever you may be; 
I will tell you of some trouble 

That happened unto me. 

My name is nothing extra, 
And that I will not tell; 

I am a roving ranger, 

And I sure wish you well. 

It was at the age of sixteen 

I joined this jolly band, 
To march trom San Antonio 

Unto the Rio Grande. 

Our captain he informed us. 
Perhaps he thought it right — 

"Before you gain that station," 
Said he, "boys you'll have to fight. 

I heard the bugle sounding, 
Our captain gave command; 

"To arms! To arms!" he shouted, 
"And by your horses stand." 

I saw the Indians coming; 

I heard them raise the yell; 
My feelings at that moment 

No tongue could ever tell. 

I saw the glittering lances; 

Their arrows 'round me hailed; 
My heart, it sank within me, 

And my courage almost failed, 

We fought for nine long hours 
Before the strife was o'er; 

The like of dead and wounded 
I never saw before. 



Page Thirty 



Five as brave and noble rangers 
As ever roamed the West, 

Were buried by their comrades; 
Sweet be their rest! 

I thought of my good mother 
Who in tears to me did say: 

"To you tliey are all strangers; 
With me you had better stay!" 

I thought her old and childish; 

The best she did not know; 
My mind was fixed on ranging 

And I was bound to go. 

Perhaps you have a mother, 

Likewise a sister, too; 
And maybe a sweetheart. 

To weep and mourn for you. 

This being the situation, 
Altho' you love to roam, 

I would advise you, by experience, 
You'd better stay at home. 



As You and I 

A fool there was and he went away. 

(Even as you and I.) 
He took and outing and swore he'd stay, 

(Even as you and I.) 
But the beds were hard and the grub was tough; 
The climate rotten, the boarders rough. 
And in one week he had enough, 

(Even as you and I.) 

Page Thirty-one 



A Drummer's Dream 

One night a drummer dreamed a dream. 

And dreaming, dreamed he died, 
And straightway to the pearly gates, 

His sin-stained spirit hied. 
And there before the Saint he stood, 

With downcast head, and low. 
"My record is pretty rank," he said, 

"I guess T'm bound below. 
Fve smoked a lot; I've drank a lot — 

Confess it all, I must; 
And flirted, too, and then, besides. 

Great Heavens, how I've cussed." 
The good Saint Peter looked at him. 

With kindly smiling eyes; 
But shook his head. "Don't ask," he said, 

"For a mansion in the skies; 
But let me ask one question, sir: 

Are you a traveling man?" 

The drummer bowed, and in this strain 

The aged Saint began: 
"You've gotten up at 4 a. m.. 

And chased a train a mile. 
And the train crew's jibes and jeers 
A-sounding all the while. 
Then you've found, as usuaf. 

The time card played its tricks; 
You've chased the wrong train once again- 

Yours goes out at six. 
You've taken some gay merchant out 

And spent a ten or more; 
And then he calmly says he bought 

His goods the day before. 
You've spent your life at bad hotels. 

And eaten still worse meals. 
With oleo and waiter girls 

All run down at the heels. 



Page Thirty -two 



"You've had your letters sent astray, 

Your trunks have wandered, too; 
With porters, clerks and baggage men. 

You're in a constant stew; 
And once a month you've seen your wife; 

Now tell me, is it so?" 
"It is," replied the drummer. 

As he took his hat to go. 
"All well," said good Saint Peter, 

As he spread the portals wide, 
"I'm very glad to meet you, sir; 

Kindly step inside. 
You've served your time in hades, 

For you've been a traveling man." 



Wisdoms While You Wait 

A good husband is only a good son grown up. 

The world wants good men and wants them bad. 

Roll up your shirt sleeves to roll up wealth. 

A narrow goodness is an ineffectual goodness. 

Irritation is the fruitful mother of prejudice. 

Character is the resultant of all life's choices. 

Sympathy that never "gets busy" amounts to little. 

The primary obligation of the present day is courage. 

You can usually tell a man's sort by what he laughs at. 

Nothing is silent in this world. There's only Deafness. 

Most present difficulties have their solutions in the past. 

The main difference in houses lies in who's living in them. 

Admit that you're down and you treble the obstacles to get- 
ting up. 

You'll never learn more than you know without venturing 
something. 

If right, you can afford to keep your temper; if wrong, you 
can't afford to lose it. 

Purpose without power is of about as much use to a com- 
munity as plot to a musical comedy. 

Page Thirty-three 



It's Life 

If your plans go wrong, 

As they sometimes will, 
And the hours seem long 

As you climb the hill; 
Remember, my friend, 

'Tis a part you play. 
You'll find in the end 

A brighter day. 
It's Life. 

If a heart grows cold 

That warmed to you, 
And a friend you hold 

To be staunch and true 
Has faithless turned, 

Take heart, my friend; 
'Tis a lesson learned, 

With a bitter end. 
It's Life. 

You may win great fame 

And wealth today. 
Or taste of shame 

And deep dicmay. 
You may lose or gain, 

May rise or fall. 
Both joy and pain 

Must come to all. 
It's Life. 

For every smile 

There is a tear; 
For every mile 

Both hope and fear; 
When some are gay 

Some must be sad; 
Along our way 

Are good and bad. 
It's Life. 



Page Thirty-four 



Whate'er may be 

Your share of woe 
Next day may see 

You come to know 
A joyful heart 

And perfect rest; 
So play your part 

And do your best. 
It's Life. 



-Edgar A. Guest. 



Camping 



Ever camp? 

Ever sleep out in the damp 

By a creek 
While the fever and the chills 
Gave your spinal column thrills 

For a week? 

Ever camp? 

Ever use a spirit lamp 

For your meals? 
Ever eat on rotten logs? 
Ever board a lot of hogs? 

With their squeals? 

Ever camp? 

Ever sojourn in a swamp 

With some boys? 
If you have been through the strife 
You are posted on camp life 

With its joys. 



Page Thirty-five 



The Blue and the Gray 

By the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver. 

Asleep are the ranks of the dead. 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Under the one, the Blue, 

Under the other, the Gray. 

Those in the robings of glory, 

These in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle blood gory, 

In the dusk of eternity meet. 
Under the sod and the dew , 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 

Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go. 
Lovingly laden with flowers 

Alike for the friend and the foe. 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Under the roses, the Blue, 

Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with an equal splendor. 

The morning sun rays fall 
With a touch impartially tender. 

On the blossoms blooming for all. 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Broidered with gold, the Blue, 

Mellow with gold, the Gray. 



Page Thirty-six 



So when the summer calleth 

On forest and field of grain. 
With an equal murmur falleth 

The cooling drip of rain. 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Wet with the rain, the Blue, 

Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not upbraiding, 

The generous deed was done; 
In the storm of years that are fading 

No braver battle was won. 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 

Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war cry sever, 

Nor the winding river be red; 
They banish our anger forever, 

When they laurel the graves of our dead. 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Love and tears for the Blue, 

Tears and love for the Gray. 

— Francis Miles Finch. 



Value of Friends 

You do surely bar the door 
Upon your own liberty. 

If you deny your griefs 
To your friends. 



-Shakespeare. 

Page Thirty-seven 



Repetition 



The baby's got a skeeter-bite 

Upon one wee pink heel, 
And dad has got to kiss it 

Once or twice to make it feel 
Like it ought to; and the other 

Says a fairy tale is due 
Ere she settles down for slumber 

" 'Tause you know you promised to." 

Then the skeeter-bite is better 

And the fairy tale is told, 
Kisses for the sleepy baby. 

Kisses for the six-year-old, 
Stories whispered at the bedside 

While their daddy holds their hands, 
Stories of a fairy princess, 

Stories of far fairy lands. 



And they drift away to slumber 

Like rose petals on a breeze, 
With gold hair across the pillow 

With their plump and dimpled knees 
Peeking through the fleecy nighties 

With their chubby arms flung wide. 
And beyond the story-telling 

Daddy lingers by their side. 



Down the years that wait their telling 

Memories of nights like these 
Shall come to them, when their babies 

Poke their little dimpled knees 
Through the self-same sort of nighties 

They are snuggled in tonight, 
And they sit beside them waiting 

To put out the bedroom light. 



Page Thirty-eight 



And they'll see their daddy,^. sitting 

As he sits now by their side, 
Kissing them and telling stories 

To his babies sleepy-eyed, 
And they'll hear across the distance 

Once again the world-old tune 
That their mother, while she holds them 

Snuggled to her loves to croon. 

Babies are the same forever — 

Daddy stories of today 
Are the same the daddies told to 

Children half the world away, 
Back in ages long forgotten, 

Back past year piled up on year. 
And always the mother-loving 

Holds the baby just as dear. 

— Judd Mortimer Lewis. 



Sing- Me to Sleep 

Sing me to sleep, the shadows fall. 
Let me forget this world and all. 
Tired in my heart, the day is long. 
Would that it soon were even' song. 
Sing me to sleep, your hand in mine. 
Your fingers as if in prayer entwine, 
Only your voice, love, let me hear. 
Singing to tell me that you are near. 

Sing me to sleep, love, you alone 
Happy my heart will feel no pain, 
Seemed to be left me for my own; 
When I awake from sleep again. 
Sing me to sleep and let me rest. 
Of all the world, I love you best; 
Nothing is faithful, nothing true 
In heaven and earth but God and You. 

— Unidentified, 

Page Thirty-nine 



The First Snowfall 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 

With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm tree 
Was ridged deep with pearl. 

From sheds new roofed with Corsara 
Come Chanticleer's muffled crow. 

The stiff rails were softened to swan's down, 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky. 

And the sudden flurries of snowbirds, 
Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in Sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood; 

How the flakes were folding it gently. 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our little Mable, 

Saying: "Father, who makes it show?" 
And I told her of the good All-Father 

Who cares for us here below. 

Again I looked at the snow fall 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arched o're our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from the cloud like snow," 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep plunge woe. 



Page Forty 



And again to the child I whispered: 

"The snow that husheth all, 
Darling, the merciful Father 

Alone can make it fall." 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her, 
And she, kissing back, could not know 

That my kiss was given to her sister, 
Folded close under deepening snow. 

— Henry Butler. 



Say Nothing 



If you see a fellow's madl| 

Say nothin'. 
If he looks as if he's bad. 

Say nothin'. 
When a fellow's in a stew 
And he's "bilin' " thro and thro, 
You will find it's best that you 

Say nothin'. 

If an auto passes by 

Say nothin'. 
Looks as if it wants to fly 

Say nothin'. 
Just as it is going to pass. 
If it stops for want of gass, 
To escape the chauffeur's sass 

Say nothin'. 

If your wife's a little cross 

Say nothin'. 
You are not exactly boss. 

Say nothin'. 
If she hands your steak out tough 
And she treats you pretty rough. 
Chances are it's good enough. 

Say nothin'. 

— T. Andrew Bradley. 

Page Forty-one 



Knights of the Grip 

We've a lot of fine men in our city today 

And tlieir title is on every lip, 
They are here on a visit, they don't come to stay. 

We refer to the Knights of the Grip. 

But we hear sad, bad things sometimes said of the boys. 
That their footsteps are oft known to slip, 

That they shirk all life's burdens, and seize all its joys, 
These frolicksome Knights of the Grip. 

We are told they've a wife at each end of the route, 

That they find a new girl on each trip. 
That in matters of eating they're hard men to suit. 

These frolicksome Knights of the Grip. 

We have heard many things far too bad to repeat. 

But just let me give you a tip: 
Those who best know the boys know they hate all deceit. 

For they're good men, these Knights of the Grip. 

When a man's on the road with his worries and joys. 

If you take just one peep in his grip, 
You'll find there a likeness of "Wife" and "The Boys" 

That is dear to the Knight of the Grip. 

In the dark, lonely hours when he bumps o'er the rail, 
And hopes that the wheels will not slip. 

He dreams of the daylight, which brings the home mail 
To the wandering Knight of the Grip. 

And his heart sings with joy, tho' he's in the top berth. 

And he's lame both in shoulder and hip, 
For it's true there's no man on the top of God's earth 

Loves his home like the Knight of the Grip. 

He is kind to the helpless, the hungry, the poor. 
To some one he does good on each trip, 

And no man who's deserving is turned from the door 
Of the big hearted Knight of the Grip. 



Page Forty-two 



So here's to the order, the Grand U. C. T.^ 
Put the full brimming glass to the lip; 

Drink success to the Salesman where ever he be, 
Health and Wealth to the Knight of the Grip. 

— Mrs. L. F. Haupt. 
Burlington, Kans. 



The Smiler 

There's an idiotic fellow, whom I meet where'er I go; 
He's the crazy kind of fellow all the little children know. 
You wouldn't think him silly from his manner nor his style; 
Still, it seems, he must be foolish, for he always wears a smile. 

When the way is long and weary and the load is hard to bear; 
When you're weighted down with trouble and there's no one 

seems to care, 
That's the time this foolish fellow comes a-singing up the road. 
With a word and smile to cheer you and to help you with your 

load. 

With his smiling "Back up, partner, 'cause we're bound to pull 

it thru. 
Tho your load's too big for one man, it's a little load for two." 
And you feel yourself uplifted with the strength to play your part. 
With his arm to aid your body and his smile to brace your heart. 

No, he hasn't got ambition, but his life-work never ends; 
He knows a million people, and he's got a million friends. 
He doesn't strive for fame and wealth, he hasn't got a goal; 
He's just a simple fellow, with God's sunshine in his soul. 

Yes, he's just a foolish fellow, with the eyes that can not see 
All the misery and sadness that are plain to you and me, 
But he knows the joy of living, all that makes the world worth 

while; 
And I'de like to be as foolish as the man behind the smile. 

Page Forty-three 



''Hello, Central!" 

Hello, Central! Hello, Central! 

Give we two-eight-five-four-two; 
I've been waiting half an hour, 

What the deuce is ailing you? 
Hello, dear! Is that you, honey? 

No? Excuse me, madam, pray! 
Guess she gave me the wrong number; 

(Drat that fool girl, anyway!) 

Hello, Central! Hello, Central! 

Say, you got me in a boat! 
That was not my wife you gave me; 

(Gee, that girl just gets my goat!) 
No, 'twas two-eight-five-four-two, dear. 

Not two-six-five-seven-three; 
Get it right this time, confound it. 

Or you bet you'll hear from me! 

Hello, Central! Hello, Central! 

Line Is busy? (Drat this phone!) 
What's that? Am I SWEARING at you? 

Well, I'll use a milder tone. 
Now please see if you can get me 

Two-eight-five-four-two once more; 
I am in an awful hurry; 

Customers are here galors! 

Hello, Central! Hello, Central! 

Have you been to sleep again? 
Will you kindly get my number? 

Well, please let me know just when! 
Hello, sweetheart; this is Billy; 

You don't know who "BILLY" is? 
Well, if that girl isn't crazy, 

I'd just like to know who is! 



Page Forty -four 



Hello, Central! Hello, Central! 

Blank this blank-dashed blanked machine! 
Gee, this service is blamed rotten! 

Worst, by heck, I've ever seen! 
Hello, Central! Hello, Central! 

(Wouldn't that just jar you some?) 
? ! ??? I'll try it later; 

Guess she's busy chewing gum! 

— E. A. Brininstool. 



Long, Long Ago 



Tell me the tales that to me were so dear 

Long, long ago, long, long ago; 
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear. 

Long, long ago, long ago. 
Now you are come, all my grief is removed; 
Let me forget that so long you have roved; 
Let me believe that love as you loved 

Long, long ago, long ago. 

Do you remember the path where we met, 

Long, long ago, long, long ago? 
Ah, yes, you told me you ne'er would forget. 

Long, long ago, long ago. 
Then, to all others my smile you preferred ; 
Love, when you spoke, gave a charm to each word; 
Still my heart treasures the praises I heard, 

Long, long ago, long ago. 

Though by your kindness my fond hopes were raised, 

Long, long ago, long, long ago; 
You by more eloquent lips have been praised, 

Long, long ago, long ago. 
But by long absence your truth has been tried; 
Still to your accents I listen with pride; 
Blest as I was when I sat by your side. 

Long, long ago, long ago. 

— Eugene Hall's "Old Settlers' Meetin.." 

Page Forty- five 



Jes' Common Folks 



Jes' common folks, now them's the kind for me- 

The kind that thrives on bacon an' on hopin'- 
Their own make, too! an' alius seem t' see 

Enuf on earth without their ever gropin' 
Around the skies for beauty an' for themes 

Because some dad-burned poet tells 'em to. 
But git enuff of love an' pleasant dreams 

Right here on earth, as mortals do! 



Jes' common folks with mebbe three or four — 

Or mebbe 'leven young uns on verandy. 

An' coondogs, too, a-hangin' 'round the door 

With one eye shut, a-keepin' sort o' handy; 
Jes' simple folks — jes' simple thru an' thru! — 

Who walks behind the reg'lar rank an' file 
An' never seem t' have no work t' do 

'Cept grab your hand an' say "Hello" an' smile. 



Jes' common folks with sympathies as deep 

As heaven's love or poet's "well o' passion." 
Who'll turn a hand t' help y' sow or reap. 

Or bury y' or help y' do your thrashin'; 
Who'll stick t' you when sorrow comes your way, 

An' bury kin or help t' lay 'em out. 
An' all they ask in way of any pay 

Is when it's time you'll sort o' turn about. 



Jes' common folks! Lord bless their happy kind. 

An' prosper 'em an" all their pore relations — 
I jes' defy the world an' all t' find 

Their betters 'mongst the folks of wealth and station! 
An' 1 know what I'm sayin', for, y' see. 

There's lots of common folks where I was riz, 
An' knowin' 'em as I do, seems t' me 

That common folks is biggest bugs they is! 

— Buffalo News. 



Page Forty-six 



The Cowboy's Prayer 

O, Lord I've never lived where churches grow; 

I love creation better as it stood 

And looked upon your work and called it good. 
I know that others find you in the light 

That's sifted down through tinted window panes, 
And yet, I seem to feel you near tonight 

hi this dim, quiet starlight on the plains. 

I thank you, Lord, that I am placed so well; 

That you have made my freedom so complete; 
That I'm no slave of whistle, clock and bell. 

Or weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street, 
Just let me live my life as I've begun. 

And give me work that's open to the sky; 
Make me a pardner of the wind and sun 

And I won't ask a life that's soft or high. 

Let me be easy on the man that's down 

And make me square and generous with all; 
I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm In town, 

But never let them say I'm mean or small. 
Make me as big and open as the plains; 

As honest as the horse between my knees; 
Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains; . 

Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze. 

Forgive me, Lord, when sometimes I forget; 

You understand the reasons that are hid. 
You know about the things that gall and fret; 

You know me better than my mother did. 
Just keep an eye on all's that done and said; 

Just right me sometimes when I turn aside. 
And guide me on the long ,dim trail ahead. 

That reaches upward toward the Great Divide. 

Charles B. Clark, Jr. 



Pag« Forty-seven 



A Shakespeare Romance 

1. Who were the lovers? 

Romeo and Juliet. 

2. What was their courtship like? 

Midsummer Night's Dream. 

3. What was her answer to his proposal? 

As you like it. 

4. At what time of the month were they married? 

Twelfth Night. 

5. Of whom did he buy the ring? 

Merchant of Venice. 

6. Who were best man and maid of honor? 

Antony and Cleopatra. 

7. . Who were the ushers? 

The two gentlemen of Verona. 

8. Who gave the reception? 

Merry Wives of Windsor. 

9. In what kind of a place did they live? 

Hamlet. 

10. What was her disposition like? 

The Tempest. 

11. What was his chief occupation after marriage? 

Taming the Shrew. 

12. What caused their first quarrel? 

Much Ado About Nothing. 

13. What did their courtship prove to be? 

Love's Labor Lost. 

14. What did their married life resemble? 

A Comedy of Errors. 

15. What did they give each other? 

Measure for Measure. 

16. What Roman ruler brought about a reconciliation? 

Julius Caesar. 

17. What did their friends say? 

All's Well that Ends Well. 



Page Forty-eight 



Amelia 

Take the hammock down; 

We are through with it this year. 
Tlie trees are shedding leaves like sin; 

The skies are bleak and drear. 
And take the shovel and the broom 

And sweep below with care — 
You never know what they have lost, 

The people sitting there. 

It may be just a pint of pins; 

A cigarette or so; 
A hatpin and a handkerchief, 

Or maybe, there below 
Will be some wads of chewing gum, 

A little velvet bow — 
For hammocks are collective things, 

And this is Fall, you know. 

—By News Staff Poet. 



Spring Tragedies ^ 

I remember, I remember. 

When life was young and sweet, 
We played our childish baseball games 

Upon the narrow street. 
The world was full of music then — 

One long and glad refrain. 
Except when some one hit a foul 

And broke a window pane. 

The tinkle of the window pane 

Was like a song of woe. 
It made us beat it from the scene 

And caused our tears to flow. 
The broken window pane itself 

Was not what made us sad. 
But when we broke a window pane we lost 

The only ball we had. 

Page Forty-nine 



The Happy-Day Club 

It's easy enough to be pleasant 

When life's like a garden of roses, 
But the man worth while 
Is the chap who can smile 

When his note for two hundred and fifty dollars falls 
due on the day after his bills for the plumber, the 
■ coal man, and his wife's Easter hat 
Come along! 

It's easy enough to be cheery 
When life is a huge mince pie, 
But the man who wins 
Is the fellow who grins 

When he starts out on a bright spring morning, arrayed 

in his finest regalia, and by noon finds a torrent 

of April rain, a February snow storm and a March 

wind playing hide-and-seek with his brand-new 

Beaver hat! 

It's easy enough to be jolly 

When life's like a lover's chat. 
But the man for us 
Is the chap who don't cuss 

When he goes off for the summer to get a good rest and 
finds he has to pay seven hallboys, two head wait- 
ers, three waitresses, six porters, eight chamber- 
maids and fourteen assorted but dignified tip- 
chasers twenty cents a day apiece or suffer the 
Icy eye! 

It's easy enough to be jocund 
When life runs on like a song, 
But the chap we prize 
Holds a smile in his eyes 

When a coy old maid of thirty-nine summers and forty- 
eight winters, with peroxide locks and a complexion 
fresh every hour, having the ways of a kitten and 
the temper of its mother, gets him off in a corner 
on a dark leap-year night 

And proposes! 

— A. Sufferan Man. 
Page Fifty 



Malefactors of Great Wealth 

The whole world seems 

BrimfuU of cheer, 
The time the kids 

Dreams of is here — 
Or nearly here — 

A few days more 
And Santa Glaus 

Will make a score, 
Then Santa Glaus 

Will fill wee socks 
With dolls and guns 

And building blocks, 
And horns and things 

The kids love so, 
And then he'll shake 

His bells and go 
Off on his way. 

Behind the hoofs 
Of his reindeer 
And then old Ghristmas 

Won't be here 
Until we live 

Another year. 
But there'll be empty 

Stockings, too. 
An' that's the thing 

That makes me blue! 
For it just makes 

My anger rise 
When I see tears 

In baby's eyes! 
I wish I had 

A bunch of strings 
On them who raise 

The cost of things, 
rd yank them so 

I'd shake 'em free 
From all the wealth 

They've stole, by gee! 
For they are thieves! 

They are, because 
They'd rob the kids 

Of Santa Glaus! 
I'd give them — they 

Make me so hot — 
What the Thanksgivin' 

Turkey got. 

— By Judd Mortimer Lewis. 

Page Fifty-one 



Do Right 



Do right 'tho pain and anguish be thy lot — 
Thy heart will cheer thee when the pain's forgot. 

Do wrong for pleasure's sake, then count the gains — 
The pleasure soon departs, the sin remains. 

— Bishop Shuttleworth. 



In speaking of a person's faults. 
Pray don't forget your own; 

Remember those in house glass 
Should never throw a stone. 

If we have nothing efse to do 
But talk of those who sin, 

'Tis better we commence at home 
And from that point begin. 

We have no right to judge a man 

Until he's fairly tried. 
Should we not like his company. 

We know the world is wide. 

Some may have faults, and who has not? 

The old as well as young. 
We may perhaps, for aught we know, 

Have fifty to their one. 

Then let us pause when we commence 
To slander friend or foe; 

Think of the harm one word may do 
To those we little know. 

— Eva Geralde. 
Page Fifty-two 



Enough 



Oh, what is enough for one, my dear, 

Is always enough for two. 
The stars and the noonday sun, my love. 

Will satisfy me and you. 
One roof is enough to cover us twain, 
One little umbrella for the days of rain. 
One little love-song with a soft refrain 

Will certainly nicely do. 

Oh, what is enough for one, my love, 

Is always enough for two. 
There's heat enough in a ton, my love. 

For any fond lovers true. 
One cozy parlor will serve us well, 
One dining-room, with one dinner-bell. 
And one little cook and a hired "gel," 

Will carry us nicely through. 

Oh, what is enough for one, my love. 

Is always enough for two. 
And when the old day is done, my love, 

I'll prove it with joy to you. 
I'll show you how one little chair 
Holds plenty of room, and some to spare. 
At twilight time for a loving pair 

Who knows how to bill and coo. 

Yes, what is enough for one, my love, 

Is always enough for two. 
In troubled time or in fun, my love. 

One portion will always do. 
One dear little home with one front door. 
One sweet little sea by the moonlit shore, 
One heart, one soul, one mother-in-law. 

Is ample for me adn you! 



Page Fifty-three 



Traveling Men's Prayer 

Father in heaven: Forgive Us for doing that which We 
know is wrong. We ask Thee to keep Our feet in the straight 
and narrow path which goeth from the Hotel to the Depot. For- 
bid that we should flirt with the pretty girls of the different 
towns and territories, for Thou knowest that We have Our 
weaknesses and misfortunes; also that We have a Wife and 
Children at home that sometimes pray for bread. Make Our 
stomachs as an earthen vessel, lest the food We eat each day 
will not digest and We become as old men, without memory 
and without manhood. Give Us grace to pay the $2.00 each 
day for which We, and Thou knoweth it is not worth. Make 
Our skins to become as the skins of Alligators that We may 
not feel the stings of the Flea and the Bedbug, which certainly 
dwell in our midst. Harden Our hearts to the wiles of the mar- 
ried women and forbid that We should make dates with them 
for verily Thou hast said We know not the day nor the hour 
that their Husbands cometh like a thief in the night, lo, even 
when We are unprepared to go out into the cold and snow 
where no man goeth except when he's full dressed. Now soften 
the hearts of the Merchants that We may call on each day, that 
they may give Us orders, for Thou knowest lest We get orders 
We get fired. Take away Our conscience that We may tell 
the dealers something We know is not the truth in order that 
Our Business may look as big as Our Expense Account. Guide 
Us now in making out Our Swindle Sheet and be with Us in 
Our Lead Pencil Graft, for verily the Boss has said unto him 
that doeth those things in his sight will be cursed and cast 
out into utter darkness without salary and without rating. Amen. 



Page Fifty-four 



Among His Own People 

A PROPHET is honorless, so we are told, 
In the places where prophets are bred. 

There's fact in this threadbare tradition of old, 
Yet much of the truth is unsaid. 

The I-knew-him-whens in the place where one grew 

Are slower, perchance, to discern 
The greatness of one whom they earlier knew. 

Ere life took its fortune turn. 

But wait till the world has grown tired of the man 

It worshiped as hero a while! 
He may turn to the place where his sojourn began. 

Assured of a welcoming smile. 

The welcome will not be conditioned upon 

His doing great things — not at all! 
They'll treat him the same as before he had gone 

To answer the world's fickle call. 

They knew Johnny Brown as "old Billy Bronw's boy — 
The world knows John Brown on a throne; 
They'll know, when the world has discarded its toy, 
The same Johnny Brown they had known. 

They'll know him and love him for things that the rest 

Had never discovered at all; 
The faithful old friends at the last are the best, 

When a man has his back to the wall! 

— Strickland Gillilan. 



Page Fifty-five 



What a Mother Does 

No one knows what a mother has done, 

No one knows of it, little son! 

No one knows of it all till at last 

When her summer of beauty and grace has past, 

Till her feet are weary, her hands at rest. 

And we come with a wreath for her tender breast! 

No one knows all her trouble and care. 

No one knows what she's had to bear; 

No one knows what a soldier of light 

She has been in her quiet, sweet effort for right; 

No one knows till she's entered in 

All that she's suffered and all she's given — 

Not for the glory of life and its din — 

But just for her little sweet place in heaven! 

No one knows what a mother has done, 

No one knows of it, little son; 

No one knows what a burden she's borne. 

No one knows how she's battled with scorn, 

And fought with error, and made our way 

Soft as the sweet of a springtime morn. 

While she grew wrinkled and old and gray 

That we might have more of life's good green May. 

No one knows till her work it o'er. 
No one knows what it was she bore; 
No one knows till the quiet hour 
When God comes down in His silent grace 
And fixes her brow till it seems a flower. 
And His wonderful beauty is on her face! 



Page Fifty-six 



Love Inexpressible 

If I could only speak, dear. 

The love that's in my heart! 
But, ah, the words are weak, deer, 

And will not do their part. 
My swiftest measures halt, dear, 

Unsteady and untrue. 
And all my art's at fault, dear, 

To tell my love for you. 

If I could only speak, dear. 

My happy heart's excess! 
But vain — in vain I seek, dear, 

My passion to express. 
Full many a pretty thing, dear, 

I've known my rhymes to do. 
But why — why don't they sing, dear. 

My tender love for you? 

— McCarthy, in N. Y. Sun. 



Do It Now 

U' with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing. 

If you like him or you love him, tell him now. 
Don't withhold your approbation till the parson makes oration 

And he lies with snowy lilies o'er his brow; 
For no matter how you shout it he won't really care about it; 

He won't know how many tear drops you have shed; 
If you think some praise is due him, now's the time to slip it to 
him. 

For he cannot read his tombstone when he's dead. 

More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and 
sunny 

And the hearty, warm approval of a friend. 
For it gives to life a savor and it makes you stronger, braver. 

And it gives you heart and spirit to the end; 
If he earns your praise, bestow it; if you like him let him know it; 

Let the words of true encouragement be said; 
Do not wait till life is over and he's underneath the clover, 

For he cannot read his tombstone when he's dead. 

Page Fifty-seven 



Our Own 

If I had known in the morning 

How wearily all the day 
The words unkind would trouble my mind 

That I said when you went away, 
I had been more careful, darling, 

Nor given you needless pain; 
But we vex our own with look and tone 

We might never take back again. 

For though in the quiet evening 

You may give me the kiss of peace. 
Yet it well might be that never for me 

The pain of the heart would cease! 
How many come forth in the morning 

Who never go home at night, 
And hearts have been broken for harsh words spoken 

That sorrow can ne'er set right. 

We have careful thought for the stranger. 

And smiles for the sometime guest. 
But oft for our own the bitter tone. 

Though we love our own the best. 
Ah, lip with the curve impatient; 

Ah, brow with the shade of scorn, 
'Twere cruel fate were the nigth too late 

To undo the work of morn. 

— Margaret Sangster. 



Page Fifty-eight 



Real Goblins 

Once there was a little girl 

Who tried to smuggle things 
And when the dock inspectors came 

She up and hid her rings; 
And when they asked her what she had 

She just said: "Nuthin' sir!" 
Although she knew it wasn't true — 

She had 'em all on her, 
And when they had her searched, O my! 

They found 'em in her hair — 
And the customs men'll get you 

Ef you don't de-clare. 

Then there was a little boy 

Who bought a lot of clothes, 
And handkerchiefs and shirts and things 

And underwear and hose; 
And as he landed on the dock 

He looked just like a saint. 
When asited if he'd bought things abroad 

He said, "No, sir, I didn't!" 
But when they opened up his trunks 

The things they found in there — 
And the customs men'll get you 

Ef you don't de-clare. 

— New York Times. 



Page Fifty-nine 



If Love Were Always Laughter 

If love were always laughter 

And grief were always tears, 
With nothing to come after 
To mark the waiting years, 
I'd pray a life of love to you, 
Sent down from heaven above to you. 
And never grief come near to you. 
To spread its shadow, dear, to you. 
If love were always laughter 
And grief were always tears. 

But grief brings often laughter. 

And love, ah, love brings tears! 
And both leave ever after 
Their blessings on the years! 

So I, dear heart, would sue for you 
A mingling of the two for you. 
That grief may lend its calm to you. 
And love may send its balm to you — 
For grief brings often laughter 
And love brings often tears. 

— Annie Johnston Grim. 



Forget It 



If you see a tall fellow ahead of the crowd, 
A leader of men, marching fearless and proud, 
And you know of a tale whose mere telling aloud 
Would cause his proud head to in anguish be bowed. 
It's a prttty good plan to forget it. 

If you know of a skeleton hidden away 
In a closet and guarded and kept from the day, 
In the dark; and whose showing, whose sudden display, 
Would cause grief and sorrow and life-long dismay, 
It's a pretty good plan to forget it. 

If you know of a thing that will darken the joy 
Of a man or a woman, a girl or a boy. 
That will wipe out a smile, or the least way annoy, 
A fellow or cause any gladness to clay, 

It's a pretty good plan to forget it. 

— Judd Mortimer Lewis. 
Page Sixty 



The Villain 

The gods up in the gallery delight to wield the hammer 

Upon the villain in the good old weepy melodrammer. 

The hero gets the wild applause, the bouquets and the kisses; 

The villain's portion is a bunch of loud and angry hisses. 

He plays a part in "Little Kate, the Garbage Burner's Daughter," 

Persues the maid with fiendish sort of cunning till he's caught her. 

And then he hisses in her ear: "Ha, ha! me haughty beauty, 

You'll wed me or I'll take the farm; it is your solemn duty." 

The hero, who has had a tip upon the villain's capers, 

Steps in and strikes an attitude and says, "Give me them papers!" 

A fight ensues that makes the Gans and Nelson bout look sickly; 

The villain stabs the hero in the solar plexus quickly, 

And throws his body over the cliff in manner most dramatic. 

The while pronouncing maledictions cruel and emphatic. 



But when he gets home from the show this brave fire-eating villain 
Is quite a different person with no plots and plans for killin'. 
He quails whene'er his wife picks up a rolling pin or poker; 
In the domestic deck of cards he's looked on as a joker. 
He dare not fire the hired girl or argue with the plumber. 
Or tell the iceman to go to the realm of constant summer. 
Though on the stage he robbed a bank and got a wad of money, 
If he can make his wife give him 5 cents at home, it's funny. 
Though at the matinee he won by plot a girl's affection, 
At home he dare not bat an eye in any maid's direction. 
Upon the stage his feats of strength cause him to be admired; 
At home the mere suggestion of a woodpile makes him tired. 
In other words, this howling fiend who sends stage persons fleeing 
Is nothing more or less than just a common human being. 



Page Sixty-one 



Under the Evening Lamp 



'Daddy, where does the summertime go?" 

Go ask your ma!" 
'What would we have if we didn't have snow?" 

Go ask your ma!" 
'How do they put all the pits into plums?" 
'Santa Glaus makes all the dollies and drums, 
'Don't he, pa? Why ain't our fingers all thumbs?' 

Go ask your ma!" 



"Why is the pig's tail all twisted and curled?" 

Go ask your ma!" 
"Why don't we ever fall off the world?" 

Go ask your ma!" 
"Don't people ever breathe nuthin' but air? 
"Where does the shadows go, up on the stair, 
When there ain't nuthin' nor nobody there?" 

Go ask your ma!" 



"Who were the very first parunts of all?" 

Go ask your ma!" 
"Did they never have parunts a' tall?" 

Go ask your ma!" 
"How did it happen that you come to stay 
Here in the house with ma every day? 
Which of you started it, anyway? Say? 

"GO ASK YOUR MA!" 

— Buffalo News. 



Page Sixty- two 



Inside 

Get this, my brother, and get it straight — 

It's a mighty good thing to know — 
A guy may always be up to date 

In the clothes he's got to show, 
A regular dude in the way he's dressed , 

Yet a man of a first-rate wold; 
For under many a full-dress vest 

Is beating a heart of gold! 

'Taint always the chap in the flannel shirt 

That's all that he'd ought to be; 
Sometimes he's nothing but common dirt 

And a bum of low degree. 
Broadcloth's honest at times, I've found, 

And frequently rags are not. 
As you'll learn, no doubt, if you bang around 

And study the world a lot. 

So size your man by his ways and speech 

And the fashion he does his work; 
For many a man with a six-foot reach 

Has the soul of a ribbon clerk; 
And many a rough-clad guy's a pest 

And a sneak and a crook, all told; 
While often under a full-dress vest 

Is beating a heart of gold! 

— Berton Braley. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



017 189 262 4 | 



It'g no' in Boolea, it's no' in tear. 

To make us truly blest; 
If Happineaa hoB not her seat 

And centre in the breast. 
We may be wige, or rich, or great. 

But never can he blest. 



